


Therapy

by sleepyytime



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Anger, Angst, Bad Parenting, Dissociation, Hatred, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Tears, Vent Piece, creative writing, emotion, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:07:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29036718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepyytime/pseuds/sleepyytime
Summary: This is all over the place, but it's a vent piece of a therapy session I had. It's just my emotions and how I felt during it, it kind of went off but I let it go in whatever direction it went since it was supposed to capture how I feel about this therapy stuff.





	Therapy

Therapy  
The first thought that crossed my mind was how much of a story-book therapist’s office this place looked like. The long, comfortable couch, the minimalist design, the grey weather pouring in through the window. I felt like a mentally ill patient in a depressing realistic- fiction novel. My surroundings felt fake, and I detatched from myself when we entered.   
The feeling in the air was awkward. We had never met this man before. We sat down on the long, cliche-therapy couch. It was comfortable. For a moment, we worried that she might have to sit down on the small couch with us, thank goodness that wasn’t the case. He asked us if we expected her to sit with us, I had to make it clear we worried she would. He asked us how we imagined it would go, and he told us what he was worried of happening. I turned to my brother and we both made a joke. I don’t remember what we said, I was tuned out.   
After what felt like forever, her and the therapist arrived. I wished that that forever would last a little longer. I could see she had two gift bags with her, clearly belated christmas gifts for me and my brother both. I inwardly cringed and hoped that the gifts would magically dissapear and we wouldn’t have to deal with the awkward exchange of recieving gifts from someone we don’t like. Instead, however, the gifts were on our laps.  
“Go ahead, you can open them and look at them or whatever, just some cheap little gifts; I had them since before gifts” she told me. ‘What else am I supposed to do with a gift?’ I didn’t say out loud. The therapist encouraged it with a quiet “yeah go ahead”. Curiosity got the better of me and I looked inside depsite myself.  
She wasn’t wrong when she said were cheap little gifts. For someone who said they loved us so much and wanted nothing more than to be with us, I expected that she would do something at least a bit more thoughtful. Maybe I was just being spoiled, however, so I let that go. As I looked through I could hear her begin to cry, so I looked through the bag three more times to avoid looking up a little longer. I mumbled a quiet “thanks” and pursed my lips into a poorly forced smile so I didn’t look bad. This is going to be a long hour.   
We had barely began and she was crying. Granted, this was the first time we were seeing each other in months. That didn’t cross my mind at the time, though. Nothing crossed my mind, in fact, excpet for the constant phrase glued to the back of my mind since the start of this session: “this is awkward”. So, when he asked how it made me feel, I had nothing to say for it. The only way I could form my feelings into words was a “well, okay then”. I could tell my brother felt the same, because all he did was shrug.  
I was tuning in and out of the session as we went. My mind was somewhere else, but I didn’t know where. I felt as though I was paying attention, but I wasn’t the one paying attention. I was a third person watching the session and hearing myself talk. I gave answers and explanations, but it was as if my mouth was answering all his questions and this whole conversation was background noise to me. I felt as though I was reading off a script that I memorised so well I didn’t need to hear what I was saying to know I was saying it right. In a way, I was. This same covnersation, this same session, this same arguement, it happened time and time again. I said the same thing, repeatedly. I heard my brother reiterating what he’s said a million times. She repeated herself as well. Maybe that’s why I didn’t need to hear myself to speak: I’ve said it so many times, for months and some for years, that the script has carterized itself to my brain and no matter how many times I say it, I can’t turn concrete into a sponge.  
It get’s fustrating, having to repeat yourself. I sat there, droning on about the same topic as she repeated the same stupid arguement and the same petty questions I’ve heard a thousand times. She brings up people and situations irrelevant to the situation. She interrupts what I’m saying. She waits for when she can speak instead of listening to what I have to say and replying. I can feel my blood start to boil and my chest tighten in anger I worked hard to conceal. I began to remember why we’re here.  
Sometimes she guilt trips us, sometimes it works. Sometime a piece of my heart hurts a little because I’m an empathetic person and I have hard time not understanding others pain. When I get away from her, detatch myself from our situation, it’s easy to forget how much I hate her. It takes only thirty minutes in a room with her to remember that sour, painful, anger powered by a pure hatred to remember why the guilt tripping only works when I’m not around her. I hate her.  
Through the session I start to read the therapist. What is his thought process? I tend to ask myself that with a lot of people, I naturally tend to read between the lines of peoples thoughts and behaviors to understand where they lie. I get the feeling he believes we are being manipulated. Our feelings go unheard, and I feel like I’m being treated as a child. He asks us if we are over exaggerating, and says that we have the influence of a lot of perspectives. What he doesn’t understand, however, is that me and my brother aren’t soft-headed, innocent, new-to-the-world children who are easily influenced. We’ve dealt with years of this. We’ve matured so much quicker than we wanted to. We understand the situation, we understand what manipulation is, and we understand how diffrentiate our emotions from those of others. Which isn’t something I’m proud of, I hurt a little inside every time someone calls me profound or mature.  
At one point he asks us if this is the childhood we wanted for our selves. He asks if we had the option, would this be the life we would build for ourselves. My voice dissapears and all I could do is nod ‘no’. If I spoke my answer, it would break. I’ve thought of that question so many times. I couldn’t stand the way everything was happening. He tells us that we need to fix it, than. He says we need to stop all this. He forgets that we didn’t choose it. Because “when will this stop” has the same exact as “when will she die”, and she’ll work to ruin everything we have until she gets what she wants. She doesn’t have love, she has an agenda.  
There is a moment where he starts to bring up developemental psychology. This is one of those moments where something he said has sparked my interest, and I listen. I want to change the subjefct and talk about that instead, because I would much rather talk about something I loved than this repetitive, static, exchange of opinions. I already know everything he is saying. I tell him that I’m actually learning about that in my psychology class. She chimes in and says she knows I’m taking that class. Good for you, I think, you finally bother to know anything about my education. I opt to not say this out loud. It fills me with anger, however, and makes me want to whip out my phone and e-mail my teacher to tell her I’m dropping out of that class. I hate this girl.  
During the session, my brother rests his head on my shoulder. I mumble to him that he should sit up and not look bored. I want this therapist to have a good impression on us. However, she also scolds him. She tells him to sit up straight and pay attention. Is she a teacher, or a mother? It makes me want to take one of the throw pillows on the couch and make a nice bed for him so he can nap right in the middle of the session. I don’t say anything to him about looking bored for the rest of the hour.   
She doesn’t understand us. I can see her narcisim pouring out of every word she says. I hate her so much. I tell her that what she does hurts us. She doesn’t listen. Instead, she interrogates us. She turns the situation on it’s head and tries to make our feeling benefit her. She wants to have her questions answered. I hate her. Every time I try to tell her that something is important to me, or something she did affected me and our relationship, she doesn’t care. It didn’t affect her, why would she care? I hate her. Does he really think she is trying? Does he really see that she really loves us? I’m starting to hate him, too. He wont let me talk. But then again, I’m not saying much. I don’t know how to articulate what I’m thinking. I’ve always been bad with words.  
He says that she has done some things that she is wrong for. She agrees. She nods along. I hate her. She apologizes. I hate her. I hate her. She says her same sorry, her line from the script. She doesn’t mean it, she never does. I hate her. She apologizes to make herself look good, to make it look like she is sorry so that we have to feel bad about being mad at her. I hate her. She’s lying. She isn’t sorry. Because if someone was sorry about something, they would stop. Sorry hasn’t meant anything to anyone before. I hate the word sorry, I hate it so much. Every time someone says it I want to cry and smack them in the face. Especially her. I hate her. She has never been less sincere. She has never felt sorry. It benefitted her, how could she be sorry?  
We end the therapy session with her still trying to argue and him telling us not to bring up things that aren’t about our relationship. He didn’t understand anything. He tells us not to bring up these other things that happened or these other people, but they are about our relationship. Every bad thing that happened does have to do with out relationship. We can’t have a normal conversation without any of these things coming up because they happened. She is so good at playing the victim. I hate her. I’ve never cried because I hate someone so much. I hate her. No one sees the real her, when there isn’t a third person in the room. No one sees her screaming, her threats, her psycho eyes. I hate her. The therapy session, just like all the others, went no where. They never will go any where with her. I hate her. 

I hate her.


End file.
